Cecidit
by pessimisticprose
Summary: Archangel is a position to adore. Everything is peaches in Heaven. Except for when Jerahmeel, the eighth archangel, is banished like Lucifer had been, he hopes to keep his spirits high. Soon, he finds himself attracted to a pro-Mortal activist, fighting off Satan's advances, and trying to convince Éponine that it isn't healthy for a cambion to be in love with a Hunter.
1. Chapter 1

**Cecidit **

**Chapter 1**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

* * *

Some people say that white symbolizes purity. That white is untainted and can never be anything less than immaculate. White roses are a prime example of this theory. Romans believed white meant sacrifice and virtue. Priests wear white during Mass. Everything about the bright color was supposed to scream cleanliness and holiness.

To some people, however, white means nothing. White, as it is truly defined, is the absence of all color. It's void; blank and unfeeling. White is too bright, too clinical, for some people. It is the color you see before you die when your life flashed before your eyes and you have no hope of coming back. It's the color of _death_. White can cause pain, it can harm, and it can be a symbol for everything that is _unholy_, if you look at it in a different light.

That's how Jerahmeel saw white as he stared at it. _The white face of Hell_, the archangel thought.

"You are no longer welcomed among us, Jerahmeel."

Jerahmeel, who was kneeling before God on one knee, looked up. His eyes seared at the holy envisagement, but he made no move to turn his head. His last act of defiance. "Of course, Father."

"Spread your wings," God commanded.

Jerahmeel did as he was instructed. His wings were the only set that weren't perfect. The other angels all possessed white or grey wings that had the most beautiful symmetry. Jerahmeel's wings were slightly disproportioned. His right wing was slightly smaller than the wing that sat on his left shoulder blade. Another unusual thing about his wings is that they're not white, or even peppered. They're black. Completely and utterly black. That small difference made some other angels skittish about Jerahmeel. There were rumors that the color of his wings symbolized the color of his soul.

Uriel and Michael, his closest companions, grabbed either wing. The embarrassment of this made his banishment even more sour. He placed his knuckles on the ground, bowed his head, and waited for the pain.

It was not just pain. It was incomparable agony. The agony that one feels when they can't bear to live anymore. It was the distress that sinners have when forced into Hell's arms. It racked his body, filling him to the point of the screams which he dared not release. He swore that as Uriel tore to the right and Michael to the left, he could feel his soul leaking through the tears in his flesh.

It was the mindset of anguish that affected Jerahmeel the most. He knew that he was going to the Mortal World; the world full of filth, lies, and greed. All seven Deadly Sins were going to be around Jerahmeel constantly. He would never again feel his wings. Jerahmeel would never again see God's face.

He collapsed onto his knees as they finally quivered enough beneath to give out. He sat before God, his head bent and sweat pouring off of his forehead. His back shook with the tumultuous breathing he produced.

When Jerahmeel looked up he saw Michael. Michael - his friend, his brother - was staring at him like he was Lucifer. That same stare as he had when the other angel had been banished. Shame, guilt, betrayal, grief, loss, _hatred_. Jerahmeel's eyes pleaded with Michael to understand, but the angel turned away. _He turned towards God. _

"Be gone, Jerahmeel," God's voice rang clear. It did not waver. He would not care about the loss.

The ground parted below Jerahmeel. Before he could form a sentence, his body fell through the clouds that had kept him afloat for so long. His eyes began to shut as he fell farther and farther from his home, but the second he hit the oxygen he was left gasping. His eyes bulged and he began to flail as he fell.

He heard one last Heavenly voice. Michael. "So be it."

Jerahmeel screamed Michael's name into the clouds above. He was so close. He reached an arm towards Heaven, but it was just beyond his reach. He was falling farther.

The Mortal World was below him. The world full of everything he had grown to dread. He fell quickly, and all Jerahmeel could think was _I don't want to go. _Wanting. That's what had gotten him exiled in the first place, and now he would never gain redemption.

He longed to apologize to Michael. This had happened to him during Lucifer's Downfall, and now Jerahmeel would be written about. He would be loathed and despised and spat on by the Mortals. They would know about his banishment, and they would have him killed.

All Jerahmeel could process were the months of pain he would be forced to suffer. Tearing off an angel's wings is one of the most taboo things in Heaven. If you tear off one's wings, so are yours torn. (Unless you are doing this atrocious act under the permission of God. Punishment, for example.) This is the law of Heaven. An eye for an eye. God was unwavering in his discipline.

Jerahmeel fell. He continued to fall until he felt Michael take pity on him. He hovered above the ground, and then splattered. Jerahmeel let out a cry of pain. His back jostled, and now he was left writhing in the rain. Jerahmeel arched, but that only intensified the burning sensation between his shoulder blades. He let out another cry before black circled flitted in his vision. He choked on a sob and passed out.

* * *

A reader may find Jerahmeel's punishment to be unfounded. There has been no mention of his crime until now. Jerahmeel did not commit a crime, per say. He practiced two Deadly Sins, and he also had a conversation with Satan.

The aforementioned Deadly Sins that Jerahmeel committed were practiced often. He had received stern lectures on the consequences of what would happen, and even a warning from God himself, but he hadn't listened. He was still greedy and lustful, which Jerahmeel _did _try to keep himself from being. The author does give him credit there.

The conversation with Satan was less honorable, and definitely less forgivable. Satan, or Lucifer, as some angels still call him, had come to Jerahmeel in a vision. He had offered him everything that God could not give. The conversation went as follows:

"Jerahmeel, I can do so much for you. You will have everything: money, power, fame! Whatever your heart does so desire!"

"Why are you asking me? I am the least powerful archangel of all."

"Precisely. You are the least powerful, so the most easily swayed," Satan had cooed, "I am asking you to, instead of inspiring about God, instill faith of _me_ into Mortals."

"I will not."

"Think on it, Jerahmeel." Satan's voice was like oil sliding throughout Jerahmeel's eardrum.

As one can see, the conversation was not particularly invasive about the workings of Heaven, nor was it corrupt on Jerahmeel's part. However, God has strict laws in place about having any form of contact with Satan. It was the final straw. God does not banish his angels often. Therefore, Jerahmeel was exiled to live among Mortals.

* * *

Jerahmeel awoke in a confused state. He was no longer outside in the rain, this much he knew. He also knew he was lying on his stomach, and not his back. (He was severely grateful for whomever decided upon that.) He was also very groggy, something that he had never really experienced before. His entire body was throbbing, soreness washing over him like waves. He was sure that Uriel was laughing at him right now. Jerahmeel tried to sit, only to be scolded.

"Lay down, angel." His head snapped over to the sharp feminine voice, but he immediately regretted his action. His neck sent tingles of pain all the way down to his toes. He obeyed her.

"How do you know me?" Jerahmeel demanded, shocked that his voice came out more hoarse than he'd like to admit. She looked at him, and he truly saw her for the first time. She had dark eyes - too dark - and her hair matched. She had an alluring appearance. Too alluring. The way this young woman moved was nothing short of seductive, and all she did was walk across the room. Her eyes flitted around the room in a defensive way. He could smell the demonic blood coursing through her veins. He allowed a strangled noise to escape his lips, "Cambion."

She smirked, "That is correct. Drink this." She placed a glass beside his bed. "It's a Mortal drink called water. It will keep you from dehydrating."

"I don't need water," Jerahmeel insisted.

She laughed, "If your voice is an account for anything, you do. You're now somewhat Mortal, Jerahmeel."

"What a comforting thought." He fell back onto his stomach and winced at the stiffness of his body. "How long was I unconscious?"

"Here, it's called sleeping."

"I know," he snapped. "Just tell me."

She observed him sharply, "A few days." She patted his shoulder, and he immediately recoiled. "Sorry. I forgot. Stripped wings. I heard it was painful. Like having your bones ripped from your body and then being thrown into something."

"Thanks for that reminder."

"I'm Éponine."

"You already know me."

She nodded, and they said nothing more. Jerahmeel fell back into unconsciousness.

* * *

When he was finally able to stand, Éponine took him outside. She helped to keep him steady as he attempted to walk. The cambion let the fallen angel lean on her in a way that Raphael would've found pathetic. He didn't care. He wasn't one of them anymore.

"I haven't ever met a fallen angel. I saw the scars and then I knew," Éponine confessed to him as he stumbled.

"I've never been out of the shelter of Heaven," Jerahmeel admitted to her. "What is the Mortal World like? Is it full of hatred and murder?"

She shook her head slowly, "Kind of. More like pollution. We're living in a strange world."

"Have you ever been to Hell?" At this point, Jerahmeel was standing on his own, and now hobbling a bit. "I think I'm going to be alright."

"Once," Éponine said wistfully. "It was euphoric. Deamons crawled the walls, literally. Some of them were blessed enough to be in a humanoid form, but most were jelly-like masses that just sat there. Some were like animals; usually reptilian in nature. My father, Ba'al, is an archdemon. Actually," she frowned, "He is the second-in-command of Hell."

Jerahmeel could tell Éponine didn't want to talk about it. "We were sheltered," he said softly. He took a shaky step towards Éponine and placed his hand on her shoulder, "Thank you, Éponine."

"You're welcome. You need a name.

Jerahmeel withdrew his hand, "What?"

"A human name."

Jerahmeel nodded solemnly, "My last reminder of angel status." He pursed his lips, "Where exactly are we?"

"France."

He nodded, "Grantaire."

* * *

Heaven is located above the clouds. Its glorious appearance is hidden by the balls of fluff that hang in the air, just beyond a child's reach. The closer the clouds, the closer Heaven is. If one is an occupant of Heaven, one insists that the clouds shelter them from the horrific images of the Mortal World. They say that the Mortal World does not deserve the privilege of looking at the Heavens that reside above them.

Mortals know all about Heaven. They know of its existence. Some even possess the audacity preach that something beyond their comprehension. They think that Heaven is something to strive for in life. Many people who are there disagree, if they aren't as high up on the hierarchy as archangels.

Jerahmeel, or Grantaire, didn't know which side he belonged on. He knew the Mortal World was less corrupt than than Heaven viewed it. However, Grantaire also knew that the angels made the realm out to be far worse than it really was. Éponine wasn't enough to base his judgement on an entire realm, but if a cambion could show compassion, the Mortals couldn't be that bad.

It was a foggy day. Grantaire knew that someone, presumably someone in power, wanted to observe the Mortals. When the clouds were low, Heaven was within a Mortal's reach. Grantaire looked out at the large city, still foggy and sporting a half-risen sun. The fog would soon be gone. Most angels would only listen when the sun was rising and most Mortals still found comfort in their dreams.

Grantaire looked out at the buildings' tops and spoke, "Michael, I know you can hear me. The real question is if you want to listen." He pursed his lips. "I have wronged you, Michael. It was selfish of me to force you to go through this again.

"I remember how you felt when Lucifer was cast away. He was like a brother to you. I can still recall what you said the day he was damned. 'Now my light is damned with him.' Michael, that broke my heart. I never wanted to see you so weak again. Look at me now, though. Now _I'm _the cause of your grief. I told myself I was going to protect you. I know, I know, you're the right-hand man. You don't need my protection. Michael, I _wanted_ to protect you. I loathe myself, since I'm the cause of your miseries.

"What is it like up there? Is everything as it should be? Is Gabriel still being mysterious, although he clearly doesn't make any sense at all? Is Uriel being violent again? Try to keep him under control for me, alright? I would bet my wings," Grantaire's voice broke on the word. "I mean, I would bet that Sealtiel is praying right now. Isn't he?

"It's ironic," Grantaire hesitated. "I was the angel that inspired people. I awakened them to God. If anyone was to instill a love of Him into the people, it would've been me. I don't even feel like_ I _believe anymore. I want to - of _course_ I want to - but I feel like he tore my faith out of me with my wings. Do you understand?

"No, I bet you don't. You're probably up there pacing. I bet you're saying to yourself, 'You've seen God. How can you not believe? Why are you questioning his existence?' Truthfully, I wish I knew. Maybe I'm just bitter about my exile. Maybe I'm skeptical because if God is so holy, why would He damn someone like me? I was an archangel! I'll tell you why. He did it because He was scared. He's scared that Lucifer really _is _powerful enough to overthrow Him. He's scared, and He's power-hungry. Why else would He do away with His only competitor?

"No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be cynical about this. Aren't we taught to look at the bright side of things? Constant optimism is so tiring, Michael. What is there to be happy about? We angels have to be perfect constantly, don't we?

"I'm so sorry. This is going to be even worse than when Lucifer was condemned. We were banned from communicating with him, remember? Now you'll never get rid of me," Grantaire offered an unconvincing laugh.

The sun was almost completely in view now. The fog dissipated quickly after its appearance. Grantaire offered Michael another soft apology before he stood and walked back into the apartment.

* * *

The first time Grantaire decided to leave the house, he had with him only Éponine and the will to see everything the Mortal World had to offer. He was stuck here, so why not make the most of it? Surely this place isn't as bad as the angels made it out to be.

He listened to Éponine patiently as she discussed the Mortals' knowledge about Heaven. "They know it exists," she had said. "They think that is is wonderful and this perfect place to be. People also know of the existence of Hell, and they're under the misconception that it's awful. Hell isn't that bad," she seemed like she was trying to convince herself. "Do you know about Transfers and Hunters?"

"What in God's name are those?"

"A Transfer is someone who can travel between realms. There are ten of them alive, and their positions are sort of like a monarchy. If one dies, the oldest son takes over. They're like messengers. There's one who reports directly to Satan, and one to God. The others just deliver other messages between Heaven, Hell, and the Mortal World.

"Hunters, on the other hand, are dangerous to me. They're deamon slayers. They'll kill mercilessly, no matter what we do. Those people are under the impression that Hell is atrocious, and so are all of its creatures, cambions obviously included."

"What about other Fallen Angels?"

She hesitated and put a gentle hand on his shoulder as they walked, "I haven't heard of any. You're kind of rare, Grantaire."

"I understand," he sighed.

They walked into town square. It was a Saturday, so the square had a general aura of business. Grantaire had to sidestep many people as to avoid a collision and cause his scars to send him into a fit of pain.

"We can change things!" a masculine voice yelled over the swarm of noise, which was quieting after he had emitted that cry. "The time is now. Heaven is sending us a sign! Only one week ago, there was an angel spotted as it fell from the sky. Heaven is sending us angels! They want the Mortal World to be more holy, everyone!"

Grantaire was mesmerized as he stared at the man speaking. He addressed the people in the square, but he also paced occasionally. This speaker looked like he had gold shining out of his skin. His complexion was perfectly tanned, and Grantaire could see the muscular physique beneath the red jacket he wore. His bright blonde curls went past his shoulders a few inches, giving off even more gold into the air.

This man's character was what struck him the most. He was very passionate, this much could already be discerned. However, he was also speaking about the Mortal World like it was his own child. Therefore, Grantaire assumed that he could be very possessive and gentle if he had to.

Only one person came to mind. "Michael?"

* * *

**AN: Okay! Phew! Hi everybody!**

**I'm Riley, I'll be fanfictioning with you for probably a few months. Because this is going to be LONG. Most likely. I already have the plot developed, I just...have to write it?**

**There's a lot of symbolism if you look for it. A LOT. Especially about my choice of archangel for R.**

**I know that was probably confusing at the beginning, so I'm sorry. No. None of Les Amis are angels, except R. He's fallen. At least...yet. I'm not sure how to go about that. Hm, that's actually kind of interesting...**

**Any questions? Feel free to comment them!**

**I hope you continue to read! :)**

**P.S. The title isn't gibberish. I'm not fluent in gibberish. (Only baby talk. My brother is two.) It means 'fallen' in Latin. I'm sick of titles being in French, so I chose Latin. French is derived from Latin. Ganando.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Cecidit**

**Chapter 2**

**TheWriterToChangeThemAll**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. **

* * *

Éponine pulled Grantaire back so the Mortals could crowd around the young man speaking. She raised an eyebrow at his slack-jawed expression, "That's Enjolras. He's the leader of a group of people who believe in pro-Mortal sentiments. They think Heaven is what Mortals strive for, so they want them to clean up their act. The group thinks that after they do that, Heaven will welcome the chance to speak to Mortals."

"That's unrealistic," Grantaire cut Éponine a sharp look. "Up there they think that the Mortal World is full of filth. They would never come down here, and if they did, it would be after years and years of persuasion. They would have to be an example."

"The Mortal World is more corrupt than you think," Éponine told him softly.

"If the Mortals in this realm would work together, we could bring peace, prosperity, and a new future for everyone! Angels would smile upon us and deamons would fear to be here. We would have no need for Hunters, or even Transfers! Any one of you," Enjolras' eyes scanned the crowd and landed on Éponine, "Could speak with an angel directly."

Grantaire shook his head and grabbed her forearm, "Let's go, Éponine. He doesn't know what he's talking about."

He spared a glance to the three men standing behind Enjolras. Truthfully, he hadn't even noticed them in his Enjolras-induced haze. He guessed they were apart of the pro-Mortal group. He wondered if Enjolras really needed bodyguards, but left his judgement to himself.

One of them wore glasses, but his eyes were jumping around in a nervous manner. He was looking for trouble. Grantaire could tell just by his posture that he had fought people before; possibly many. He had his hands behind his back and he stood stiffly; like he was anticipating something bad to happen. He stood the closest to Enjolras, so Grantaire pegged him as the second-in-command.

Two more men stood close together behind the bespectacled gentleman. One had a mop of red waves sitting on his head, whilst the other boasted a choppy brown haircut. They stood alert and poised, as if waiting for any attack on their leader. Grantaire let himself wonder for a brief second what kinds of weaponry they had on them, but quickly dismissed the thought.

He drug Éponine towards a different building. Anything to get away from Mortals who didn't know anything about Heaven. She allowed herself to be pulled under the marble pillars. He looked at the sign, and it identified the large building as a library. He dropped her forearm motioned for her to follow him inside.

"Why did you bring me in here?" she asked him cautiously. "What did he do?"

"Nothing! He just doesn't understand anything about Heaven."

"So that made you forcibly drag me away? The guy behind him was kind of cute!"

He rubbed his eyes, "Be serious."

Éponine fell silent and Grantaire walked past the foyer of the grand building to where books were kept. The place was silent for the most part, excluding a room that was full of schoolboys chattering about nothing.

"Hi!" one voice called. A tiny blonde man waved the two into the room, "There are enough seats for everyone!"

Éponine shot Grantaire a cautious look, but strode forward anyway. This is the moment in their relationship that established Grantaire as the follower. Éponine now made the decisions, and they both knew it.

"Hello," she said. "What are you doing in here?"

The blonde man giggled, "We're a political group. A few of our members are outside right now, so we're waiting on them. C'mon, I'll introduce you to some people!" He turned to lead them around the group.

Grantaire murmured in Éponine's ear, "I don't think this is a good idea."

"Go with it."

"Okay!" The blonde clapped his hands together, "I'm Jehan!"

"Dude, you can't just trust them with everything! What are you two even doing here?" Grantaire averted his eyes from Jehan to a man who was now standing beside the small man. His eyes were stunningly blue, which drew attention from everything else about him. He peered at Grantaire, "Do I know you?"

"Most likely not." Grantaire nodded politely, "Grantaire."

"Courfeyrac," he said. He observed Grantaire's awkward posture for a moment before crowing out an exclamation of delight, "Don't worry! I don't bite."

"I would hope not," Grantaire murmured.

"It's an expression," Éponine chided. "Sorry, he isn't from around here."

"It's cool!" Courfeyrac shrugged it off, "Not a big deal at all. Where are ya from?"

It was that fortunate moment that two of the four men who had been outside chose to stride through the door. Grantaire breathed out a sigh of relief.

"Hello," one nodded.

Jehan seemed oblivious to them, "Okay, so we're Les Amis de l'ABC."

"Sounds like a mouthful."

"We're a political group. We believe that the Mortal World has to straighten itself out before Heaven will communicate with us willingly. Wait, that isn't what we think. We have to fix the Mortal World ourselves. We're always looking for new members, you know!"

Grantaire raised an eyebrow, "Then why aren't there hundreds of Mortals here?"

Jehan ignored his odd wording. "Not many people like our cause."

"A stupid decision, really," someone chimed in.

"Oh," Éponine shot Grantaire a look. "I'm not sure we're on the same page with that belief. I think we should clean the realm up, though."

"I respect that," Jehan help up his hands in a peaceful gesture, "I'm sure Enjolras won't mind."

Grantaire stiffened, "That man outside is a member?"

"I am."

Grantaire turned his head slowly and saw Enjolras up close. He jumped at their sudden proximity and took a step backwards so he didn't feel claustrophobic. This man was even more angelic face-to-face. "Uh," he said. He couldn't think of a more intellegent response. This man could easily pass as the personification of sunlight, and it was very distracting.

"Two people left during the demonstration." The gentleman with glasses peered at Éponine before speaking again, "Was it you and him?" She could only nod in return. "I do a headcount at smaller rallies." He stuck out his hand, "Combeferre." Éponine eyed his hand disttrustfully, so he dropped it and looked at Grantaire. "Right. I'm guessing Jehan already welcomed you."

"I did!" Jehan put a hand on Enjolras' shoulder. "They seemed nice enough. It couldn't hurt for them to come to a meeting or two at the Musain. I mean, you're always looking for people to dedicate themselves to your cause, Enjolras. You can use your persuasive powers to win them over."

Grantaire thought Jehan might have been laying the praise on a bit thick, but Enjolras merely snorted in amusement, "Fine. Our next meeting is Thursday at six."

Éponine grabbed Grantaire's wrist and began to pull him out of the library. "We'll be there," she stated.

* * *

"What happened?" Grantaire queried her on the way back to their apartment.

"That man! Combeferre! He was a Hunter!" She shivered, "He has deamon blood on his hands."

"He looked fairly clean to me." She shot him a glare. "You're a cambion. Do you have to worry about Hunters?"

"Yes!" she shrieked. "Hunters don't _care_. They kill without thought! With my father being Ba'al, I'm pretty damn powerful. He could sense it! He knew!" She rubbed her temples, "This sucks!"

Grantaire stopped her furious pace and put his hands on her shoulders. He looked her directly in her dark eyes, "Calm down, Éponine. I promise that that man will never hurt you. You don't have to go to the Musain. I won't either."

Éponine nodded tearfully, "Thank you." She wrapped him in a forceful hug and Grantaire let out a whimper of pain. She drew back with an apologetic smile playing on her lips.

* * *

Éponine nodded solemnly at Grantaire's back, "It's a pain salve. It should take away the stinging."

"Just do it." Grantaire knelt in front of Éponine and she scooped a glob of the minty cream onto her hand.

"This will probably hurt." With that, she slathered his right scar.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Grantaire swore as he gritted his teeth together.

"I'm sorry!" Éponine traced her finger along the scar running down his back. "There's no way these are that painful. They're _scars._"

Two thick scars ran their way down his back. They were pink and looked fairly new, but they were ragged. The jagged edges ran from Grantaire's shoulder blade all the way to the small of his back. They were unattractive and awful against the smooth skin of Grantaire's back.

Éponine stared at them in wonder, "Wow. I've never seen anything like this."

"Well, they fucking hurt, so rub that shit on it and let's be _done with this._"

"Okay! Sorry."

She put another glob of cream onto her finger and slid it along his left mark. She offered him an apology when she heard the hisses escaping his mouth. She lightly ran her finger along the right scar adorning his otherwise smooth back.

"Mother-"

"Stop," she said, "You're done."

"Thank every deity ever worshiped," he croaked. "Never again. Can we never touch them ever again?"

"I'll think about it."

* * *

Thursday rolled around before Grantaire knew it. He looked out at the city with no intention of going to the Musain at all, but Éponine cleared her throat behind him.

"Are we going or not?" she asked.

"I thought you were afraid of Combeferre."

"I haven't done anything wrong. He seems like a fair judge, so as long as I don't do anything deamonic, I should be fine. Just because my father is Ba'al doesn't mean-" She let the sentence hang in the air.

"Doesn't mean that you're evil. I know."

She flashed him a grin, "He probably won't even notice I'm there."

"Exactly."

Grantaire didn't agree with her.

* * *

"You came back!" Jehan smiled.

"We did," Grantaire nodded. "Who's that?" Grantaire motioned to a woman who definitely wasn't at the library on Monday.

"That's Cosette. Girlfriend of Marius, one of our members. Let me introduce you to everyone."

Everyone took a liking to the new people, save Enjolras and Combeferre. Bahorel and Feuilly offered to buy Grantaire a drink when he confessed he had never tasted alcohol. (He enjoyed it far too much.) They were impressed with how well Grantaire held his alcohol for a man who had never had any. Feuilly and Bahorel usually commandeered Grantaire's attention throughout the night, but they paid little mind to Éponine.

Cosette took and instant liking to Grantaire, and she stayed at his side the entire night as he downed drink after drink. He could vaguely sense something different about her, but the brandy diluted his judgement about her. He could register that she was very pretty. Éponine glared at her whenever Cosette tried to speak to the cambion, so she eventually gave up.

Combeferre kept staring at Éponine like she was some kind of experiment. She would nod coldly at him and receive nothing but an indifferent stare in return. She knew he knew, but she wasn't sure why he wasn't springing on her with a poisoned knife or holy water, which would surely sear her skin.

Enjolras hated the new man. He did nothing but accept Feuilly and Bahorel's drinks in stride, and it irrationally irritated Enjolras. He thought that the new member should at least _try _to listen to him preach about mortals and Heaven. Enjolras wasn't used to being ignored, but he found it impossible to forgive. Luckily, Combeferre asked him a question as he was about to snap at the man. It distracted him enough.

* * *

Now it's time for some information about some of the different creatures in this tale. As the reader knows, Heaven and Hell's existence are common knowledge in the Mortal World. With these realms in everyone's knowledge, they are also aware of the existence of angels, demons, and everything in between.

Fallen angels are extremely rare. The only angel to ever warrant this excessive punishment was Lucifer, but he is now considered Satan. Some Mortals don't consider him a fallen angel at all, because he is now the ruler of Hell.

In any event, fallen angels will never live without pain. Their scars will never fade, and the slightest caress, even that which stems from a lover, causes agonizing burning and stinging sensations to befall the angel. One may think that this is rather odd, but these scars are said to be a constant reminder of God's punishment.

Fallen angels can only be slain if they are pierced in the small of their back. They are immortal, and will never age. This could be a blessing and a curse, as the author will address later.

Cambions are the spawn of a deamon and a Mortal. They aren't rare, but powerful cambions can possess powers and cause severe damage to the Mortal World if they so desire. A cambion can survive for several centuries (this aspect of their being comes from the deamon blood coursing through their veins), but some commit suicide over fear of a Hunter's punishment, or even just from dying before their Mortal companions.

Archangels report directly to God himself. They will never die, but they can only leave Heaven on rare occasions. Archangels are literally the holiest beings who are still capable of being terrible. Jesus, God, and the Holy Spirit are perpetually immaculate, but archangels can be corrupt and horrible. They can have a hidden hatred and want to viciously condemn everything in their path. The author is not trying to suggest that any current archangels possess this quality, but it is a possibility.

Deamons are, in all honesty, more complex than archangels. Many people wish to find Heaven more interesting that Hell, because it is generally accepted as a horrid place, but Hell is full of contradictions. Deamons are intelligent, even more so than some archangels. They have internal turmoils; they wish to serve Satan, even if it is the wrong thing, but the turmoil lies in the moral issues with their deeds. Many deamons used to be Mortal (unless they were created by Satan himself), so they do not wish to cause direct harm upon the Mortal World, but are forced to by their loyalty to their master.

These forces conflict. Archdeamons are the counterpart of archangels, and they are as terrible as the archangels are holy. Ba'al is the most influential archdeamon in all of Hell, mainly because he is trusted by Satan.

There was a war between Heaven and Hell.


End file.
